Never Know
by Lickerish
Summary: Sometimes Kate just doesn’t listen. How far will Castle go to prove he’s right? Are the possible consequences worth it? Or will everything blow up in his face?
1. Life is Short

* Some people wanted me to expand on the _It Wont Be Long_ piece from _Maybe If We're Lucky_. Here it is. The murder idea is from _The X-Files_.*

"They make it hard on purpose. There are lives in our hands. There comes a moment, when it's more than just a game. And you either take that step forward, or turn around and walk away. I could quit, but here's the thing: I love the playing field." – Meredith, Grey's Anatomy

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1. Life is Short

[Castle POV]

Beckett wasn't listening, not that she ever really did. It's not like I can blame her, either. Most of the time, my ideas are outlandish and insipid. This time, however, I _am_ right. I know it with all of my heart. The only problem is, it sounds like something my eccentric brain would concoct. Something I would think up for one of my books. She just won't take the time to listen because of the peculiarity of it all.

A boy turned up dead last week. Jack. Three days before his eighteenth birthday and just two weeks before Christmas. The last time he had been seen was when he picked his girlfriend up at her house for a date. This had been four days before his body was found dumped in Jefferson Park over in East Harlem. Jack had been beaten and tortured before a fatal blow to the head ultimately killed him. His girlfriend, Jessie, was still missing. This was one murder case that Kate was not toying around with. But neither was I. She just couldn't see that. Beckett was too far into her own head during this case to listen to anything that couldn't be programmed, categorized, or easily referenced.

The wounds inflicted on Jack resembled those on a young couple that had been abducted five years previously on the exact same night. The only problem is, their murderer, Serge Gullet, has already been caught. He is currently serving life behind bars and we have no credible leads. I, however, have found something; something that no one else wants to look into. Why? Because it involves working with that same man who killed those kids five years ago. He knows something. This guy claims to have some sort of psychic connection with the killer. Maybe it's true. I have never been one to believe in psychic abilities or paranormal phenomenon, but what if we were the wrong ones all along? What if that stuff really exists and we are just overlooking the facts? Maybe this guy is in league with the killer, trying to get time off his sentence for 'good behavior'. Who knows really. All I know is that this guy might be able to help. So why not use him?

At the moment, I am making my way across town to do just that. If Kate won't listen, I will have to dig up some information that she can't ignore. I'm starting at the most reasonable source and am willing to dig as deep and wide as I need to in order to find this girl alive. She needs us, and I am not about to let her down.

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[Beckett POV]

"Where's Castle?"

Esposito's voice pulled me from my reverie. I had been so engrossed in finding some detail in Jack's file that we could work with that I was unaware of the detective's presence at my side. Rubbing my eyes with my left hand, I raise my right to check the time on my father's watch. I have been at it for nearly three hours straight. It is then that Esposito's question finally makes it through my subconscious.

"What do you mean? Isn't he with you?" Shaking my head, I attempt to clear it of the stupor now clouding my senses.

"Nah, Ryan and I have been working on the murder board and haven't seen him in over four hours. I thought he was with you." Seeing the confused expression on my face, he backpedals. "You know, maybe he just went home. It _is_ like, what? Seven-thirty? He does have a kid to go home to."

Sighing loudly as I turn in my chair, I address the man to my side. "You may be right." Pausing, I run a ragged hand through my short, choppy hair. "But you may be wrong. Why don't you put in a call to Lincoln Correctional and see if anyone has been to see Gullet in the last four hours."

"You got it boss." Turning on his heel, Esposito begins to walk away.

"I'm going to try him on his cell." Turing before he reaches the fence at the end of my desk, he faces me once more. Shaking my head from side to side, I chew on my bottom lip. "I swear to god, if that man has done something stupid, he may not live to regret it."

Esposito chuckles. At least we can make light of the situation. I wonder whether there will be a point in the near future that such an act would be wholly inappropriate. "How many times have you threatened to kill him?"

"At least twelve. I bet I can make it an even twenty before the week is out." If he has done something stupid, if he's gone behind my back and done something I have explicitly told him not to do, the consequences will be great.

Smirking, Esposito turns once more. "I don't doubt it. I'll go make that call."

Swiveling back toward my desk, I reach quickly across its surface to my cell. Holding down the number five, I wait until the screen reads 'Calling Castle' before bringing it to my ear. It rings only once before going strait to voicemail. "Damn it, Castle! Pick up your phone!" I call out in vain, hit the end button, and throw the offending piece of technology down on the desk before me. Where in the hell is he?

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[Castle POV]

As I make my way down Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Blvd from the correctional facility, I am all abuzz with excitement. Maybe that's not the best word to use in this context, but in truth, I _am_ excited. I have information. Information that could solve the case we are on right now. Gullet was a nut job. But he was a _helpful_ nut job, at least if what he told me was true. During our 'discussion' he had synchronized his mind with the kidnapper's and gave me some landmarks to look out for. I knew the place he was describing. Let's just say I wasn't the best kid growing up and spent a bit more time than necessary in Harlem. Not that it is necessary to spend any time in Harlem, but I digress.

His descriptions fit perfectly with a jazz club I remember flawlessly from my youth. Above it were some old dilapidated apartments and I am hoping against hope that I will find something, anything there that we can pin to the kidnapper. My rusty lock-picking skills allow me entry through a side door. The club is not yet open for the night and I can hear a small number of employees speaking in the main area. Slipping through a dingy hallway, I take a flight of rickety stairs up to the second floor. There are a number of doors off of this hallway and I begin to wonder how I will even know what to look for. I hear a voice. It wafts down the hallway from a slightly ajar door at the end. The gruff voice seems as if it is a one sided conversation, possibly someone one a phone.

Silently making my way toward this door, I almost fail to notice as it begins to creep open further. My wits about me, I quickly slide into a room to my right - making no noise as I do so. Slipping the door closed behind me, I lean against it in relief. It had been a close call. My relief soon vanishes, however, as I realize what I have walked into. Stepping promptly forward, I lift the limp chin of Jessie Payton. Am I too late? She's still warm and on closer inspection, I find a weak pulse beating through the vessels in her neck.

"Jessie," I whisper as I crouch before her. "Jessie, wake up." Shaking her face gently from side to side, I attempt to rouse the young girl, but to no avail.

"Who in the hell are _you_?" a deep voice sounds from behind me.

Spinning quickly as I rise to my feet, I face the most recent addition to the small room. Before anything else can be said, I hear a loud bang. My body is thrown backward, narrowly missing the unconscious girl behind me. As I hit the ground, I reach for my chest – toward my heart. A warm, sticky liquid flows over the top of my fingers, cascading down to the floor. I barely have time to register that I have been shot before everything fades to black.

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	2. A Hard Day's Night

2. A Hard Day's Night

[Beckett POV]

My greatest fears are confirmed when I get the call. There has been a body found in the amphitheater of Marcus Garvey Park. His body. No need for a positive ID. Everyone in this city knows who Richard Castle is. All I can think is that I may have lost my chance. Lost the chance to berate him for not following my orders; to regretfully thank him for the significant information he no doubt found on the case. Lost the chance to see his smile one last time; the chance to feel him hold me in his strong embrace when we finally crack the case. Most of all, I may have lost the chance to tell him. Tell Richard Castle how I truly feel about him. I have the feeling he already knows, but it means so little unless it comes from me. He needed to know. I needed to tell him. And now it may be too late.

I currently weave my way in and out of traffic, sirens blazing. Esposito is waiting for me. I see him standing near the automatic doors as I pull my cruiser into the unloading area. Swiftly stepping from the car, I throw my keys to him. He will take care of it for me. All I need right now is to speak with someone. Someone who can tell me something regarding his condition. Castle is not dead. He can't be. It makes no sense, but I can still feel him around me. Esposito's hand grazes my shoulder in a soothing gesture as I brush past him toward the lobby of New York Presbyterian. Their cardiothoracic surgical unit is ranked sixth in the nation and is the best in New York. If Rick has any chance of making it, that chance will be found here.

"Richard Castle?" I ask of the on-call nurse sitting at the nurses station.

The woman, nurse Taylor according to her nametag, takes in my frazzled appearance before addressing me. "Are you of any relation to the patient?" she inquires.

Although I know that this question is only protocol, it upsets me more than it should. I'm not family. I have no claim over this man. That doesn't stop me from lying to the nurse, however. I have to be economical with the truth. "I'm his fiancé," I tell her with a nod.

"Then you'll want to talk to Dr. Thompson over there." My gaze follows the path her hand directs me - toward a man who looks to be in his early forties. Nodding over my shoulder at nurse Taylor in appreciation of her help, I hastily make my way over to where the doctor is standing.

"Doctor Thompson?" alerted of my presence, he turns from his comrade to face me. "Detective Kate Beckett," I inform him, flashing my badge. "I'd like any information you have on Richard Castle's condition."

He takes a moment, seemingly considering whether or not he should tell me anything. There must be something in my weary appearance, the concern in my face, the pain in my eyes, that causes him to reconsider. "Ms. Beckett, all I can tell you right now is that Mr. Castle has been shot in the chest with a small caliber weapon. He is currently in critical condition and we are doing all we can to stabilize him. We are prepping him for surgery at the moment and as soon as there is any news, I will send someone out to you. For the time being, I have to ask you to wait." Without another word, he walks swiftly away, veering around a corner and through a pair of double doors. Doors sporting a sign reading 'Authorized Personnel Only'.

Turning toward the waiting area, I steel myself for the long night ahead of me. Sitting isn't an option. I can't even stand still. As I pace back and forth before the chairs in front of me, I detect warning glances from nurse Taylor. Ignoring them, I continue my movements. I have no knowledge of time. It could be minutes after my conversation with the doctor. Maybe it has been hours. I'm not sure.

As I make another of the countless turns back toward the front doors, a number of familiar faces appear. Ryan, Esposito, Alexis, and Martha are at my side in the next second. The latter's faces are stained with recently shed tears. Their eyes are bloodshot; the skin around them red and puffy. I imagine that I must look much the same. Alexis wraps her arms around my torso and buries her head into my neck. Without a moment's hesitation, I return the embrace, holding the young girl tightly against me. Sobs escape her mouth as she begins to vibrate against my body. "He's going to be okay," I murmur. I need to believe it. I have to. Without hope, I have nothing. We are always warned in the NYPD about offering people false hope. Offering ourselves false hope. But in the unlikely story that is Richard Castle, there has never been anything false about hope. Once you choose hope, anything is possible.

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With each breath I take, I feel soft, fine hair tickle my nose. A warm body is pressed up against my own and there is a deep pain in my neck. Opening my eyes, I find Alexis curled into a tight ball in my lap. She looks more like a child to me now than she ever has before. Small, frail, and vulnerable have never been words I would use to describe Alexis Castle. Her legs hang across the armrest into the seat to our left. One arm is wrapped around her knees, the other around my neck, holding me to her. That explains the pain. My own arms cradle her against my chest. My legs are outstretched in a chair that has been moved before us. Darkness is visible through the small windows to my right. Either it is not yet morning or I have been asleep much longer than I thought. The lengthy darkness that comes with winter often brings with it depression. I have felt that depression before and don't have the strength to do it again. Softly petting the young girls head, I plant a kiss atop it.

Martha is nowhere to be found; Esposito and Ryan are across the room, speaking in hushed tones. The former notices my gaze on him and begins to make his way over to where I sit, Ryan following close behind. Motioning at Alexis, I implore him not to wake her. "What do we know?" I ask quietly of him as he nears.

"Nothing." Javier explains, looking down at the sleeping girl in my arms. "It's been eight and a half hours and no one has been out yet with any updates." Lowering himself into the chair before me, he heaves a tired sigh.

"Where's Martha?" I inquire, looking around the room once more. We seem to be its only occupants at the moment. It must have been a slow day in emergency, which is a good thing. That means they had more hands free for Castle. My musings are cut short, however, as the code team rushes by. The code team saves lives, just as those doctors are going to save Richard's. They have to.

Esposito's voice pulls my attention back. "She went to make a few calls. I…" Before he can complete his sentence, Martha makes her way around the corner.

"Oh, Katherine," she exclaims as her eyes land on me. "You're awake." She hastily takes the seat next to mine, placing her hand upon my forearm.

Taking her hand in mine, I place them on the armrest between us. "Martha, how are you holding up?"

After running her free hand across her face, she looks back at me. "It's difficult," she says. "This type of thing always is. But he's made it this far. I have to believe that he will pull through this." Glancing away from my eyes toward her granddaughter in my arms, she smiles for what may be the first time that night. I wish I had that. Someone that could be there to help me smile through my pain. I can't help but hope that maybe someday, I will. "Would you like me to help you move Alexis?" she asks.

I hurriedly shake my head, unwittingly pulling Alexis closer to myself. "No, that's okay. She's pretty light. Besides, she's kind of keeping my grounded, if that makes any sense." I bite my lip as a fresh tear threatens to fall. I don't know if I can do this much longer.

Martha quickly covers our clasped hands with her other. "No dear, I understand."

"Ma'am," nurse Taylor called in my direction. Everyone's eyes turn toward her. "I have been told that your fiancé is being brought out of surgery." Their eyes quickly dart back to mine as my own widen to what must be an impossible size. "The doctor is on his way to speak with you now." Nodding at her with an embarrassed smirk on my face, I look back at the group around me.

Ryan is the first to break the awkward silence. Attempting to keep the chuckle out of his voice, he addresses me. "Your…" Before he can finish his question that I already know the end of, I break in.

Putting my hand up to silence him, I counter his unspoken question. "They wouldn't tell me anything unless they thought I was immediate family." Esposito and Ryan still sport smug looks on their stupid faces, so I turn instead to Martha. "I had to tell them something." She smiles knowingly and nods. Her eyes soon focus on something behind me and I turn to see what it is.

Looking at a clipboard in his hands is Dr. Thompson. Looking up, he notices our gazes. "Miss Beckett."

"Doctor Thompson," I reply quickly. Raising my intertwined hand, I introduce him to Castle's actual relatives. "This is Martha Rodgers, Richard's mother, and," I incline my head toward the large child in my lap, "Alexis Castle, his daughter." Releasing Martha's hand, I gently jostle Alexis. "Wake up, sweetie." A small tired sound escapes her thin frame as she begins to wake. Rubbing her eyes, she moves to get up from my lap. "It's okay," I tell her, holding her to me. If the news is bad, she's going to need someone to hold her together. So will I. I just hope it doesn't come to that.

"Nice to meet you," he nods to the older woman to my right and the younger one in my arms. Looking over at Esposito and Ryan, he directs his words to them. "I'm sorry, but unless you are family as well, I am going to have to ask you to leave."

Ryan braces his hands on either side of him. "No problem." Standing from their chairs, they turn to leave. "We'll go grab some coffee." Taking Esposito's recently vacated seat, the doctor turns to face us.

"The surgery went as well as could be expected. We needed to gain access to his heart. The bullet had lodged itself in his chest cavity after puncturing a major artery in his heart. There was a great deal of blood loss, but we quickly stabilized him, removed the bullet, and repaired the damage. Postoperative pain is universal and intense, so for at least the next few days, we will keep him in a medically induced coma. He will be placed on opiates for a while after that in order to manage the pain. This will interfere with recovery of his respiratory function, so we will need to keep him here and on a respirator for the next few weeks."

I break in as he takes a quick breath. "So, he'll be okay? He's going to make it?" I need to hear him say it in as many words. Alexis looks from my hopeful face toward the doctor's somber one. Why do they always have to be so serious. Do doctors ever smile?

"I don't want to get your hopes up. He is still in critical condition and could take a turn for the worse. But, yes," he informs us, "as long as he continues on the path he is on, he will live." Both of Alexis' arms slide around me and she holds me tight. Her eyes closed, she rests her head against my chest and I tuck it underneath my chin. I hold her head gently against me and rub my other hand across her back. My own eyes close as the first smile in nine hours grows on my face. "Right now he is being transferred into the ICU. You may see him if you like, but we ask that there be no more than two visitors at any given time. I am on-call tonight. If you have any further questions, just have a nurse page me."

I can't find my voice; thankfully Martha speaks to the doctor so that I don't have to. "Thank you for all your help, doctor."

"My pleasure." Opening my eyes, I see her stand and take his hand before he turns away to disappear around the corner once more.

Alexis' arms slip from behind me and I release her so that she can stand. She wraps her grandmother in an emotional hug. As I stand up and begin to stretch my sore muscles, the pair separates and turns in my direction. "You two go on ahead," I tell them. "I'll wait here to tell Esposito and Ryan what's going on."

Releasing her granddaughter fully, Martha makes her way over to me. Pulling me to her, she cradles my head against her shoulder. I place my own arms loosely around her. As I take in a ragged breath, the silent sobs begin once again. Holding me closer against her and petting my hair in soothing motions, she mumbles into my ear. "Everything will be fine now, darling. He's going to make it." She holds me until my tears subside.

A series of jagged breaths later, I find enough composure to reply. "Thank you, Martha." I pull back slowly and she gently wipes the tears from my eyes with the soft pads of her thumbs. She lets go of me and takes the hand of the teenager behind her before making her way toward her son's room. I know that I will not be able to sit still right now. Wiping any remaining tears from my face with the back of my sleeve, I bend down to pick up my jacket. I need to take a walk. Pulling my arms through the jacket, I make my way out the sliding double doors into the crisp night air.

Just as I reach the second set of doors in the entryway, a voice stops me. Someone is calling my name. Turning back toward the nurses station, I see Dr. Thompson taking long strides in my direction.

"What is it, doctor?" I ask, my face etched with worry.

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	3. A Bitter Song

3. A Bitter Song

Reaching into the pocket of his white lab coat, the doctor pulls out a baggie containing a blood-soaked piece of paper.

"When we gave his belongings to the other detectives, we missed this." Handing the bag to me with care, he continues. "It was in his left breast pocket. I hope it will help you find whoever did this."

I stand stock-still, my hand still unclasped around the new object within it. "So do I," I tell him before he returns to wherever it is he came from.

I need to know what is on this piece of paper as it may be something valuable. This sensation is the exact one keeping me rooted to the spot. What if this paper tells me all I need to know? Will that really mend the hole still searing its way through my heart? There is only one way to find out. I take a large breath before closing my fingers carefully around the bag and reach for my phone. Pressing the speed dial button, I wait for a voice on the other end.

"Esposito," he says, obviously failing to look at his Caller ID. When I say nothing, he continues, "Hello?"

"Esposito," I rasp into my cell, "Where'd you park my car?"

He answers without delay. "It's over in the parking structure on the second leve-" he cut himself off quickly, "Wait. Why do you need your car? What did the doctor say?"

He expects the worst. Of course he does. I would as well if our positions were reversed and he were acting the way I am now. But none of this matters now. What matters is that I need to get to my car, get a latex glove, and read what is written on this piece of paper. This piece of evidence could be our salvation; Jessie's salvation.

"It doesn't matter," I tell him, "I need to know where my car is."

I don't know what to do with myself. All I can do is stand here and wait until I know where to actually find the thing. Waiting in not one of my strong points. Not when I really need to get something done.

"Of course it matters, Beckett," he counters in a condescending tone, "Where are you? I'm coming to find you."

I sigh; men can be so stupid sometimes. I wonder why they can never leave well enough alone. All he has to do is tell me where my car is, but of course, I expect this is not going to happen.

"He's going to be fine. Okay, Esposito?" Perhaps the knowledge of Castle's condition will placate him; but I doubt it. "Just tell me where to find my car."

Esposito sighs. He knows he's not going to win, yet he still tries. Dense may be the correct word to define him at this moment.

"I still have your keys," he informs me as if I have forgotten. "Maybe you shouldn't-"

"Don't lecture me right now, Esposito." I don't even let him finish, butting in quickly. "I have a spare set of keys with me and I'm not driving anywhere. I just need to get something."

Just as I am about to press him further for the information I need, I think better of it. "Meet me at my car," I demand. No requests will be made tonight. I might need his help once I find out what this note will tell me, so inviting him is probably my best option. "I might have some evidence to get us out of this mess of a case once and for all."

His tone of voice changes immediately. "Got it. Second level, Section A." Before he can say another word, I hang up the phone and begin the short trek to my car. What awaits me there, I do not know.

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My fingers slip into the latex glove as I sense Esposito's presence behind me.

"What's that?" he wonders aloud, looking over my shoulder to the object I am currently removing from the protection of the plastic bag in which it was enclosed.

Without looking behind me, I answer. "A piece of paper they found on Castle." Carefully peeling the folded, wet piece of paper open, I focus all of my attention on it.

"What's it say?"

I sigh deeply. He is breathing down my neck and I do not appreciate it.

"I don't know yet, Esposito. Why don't you let me read it and then I can let you know?" My catty tone hurts even my own ears, but right now is not the time to apologize. Castle's untidy scrawl fills the page. Most of it has been smudged by the blood that soaked through the paper, but something jumps out at me. Something I can't ignore. "JazzMobile," I mutter aloud.

Esposito's voice behind me breaks the silence of my mind. "What did you just say?"

My eyebrows furrow. His tone of voice indicates that he knows exactly what I said and that it has struck a chord with him. "JazzMobile," I repeat. "Do you know it?"

As I turn to him, I notice the recognition in his face. "Yeah, it's not ten blocks from the park. They actually play at the park on Fridays." A brief pause, and then he continues, "Kate, this could be where they are hiding the girl." No duh. I don't say it, but thinking it is still okay, right?

Then I realize what he has said. Girl?

"Jessie," I tell him, "Her name is Jessie." The anger is quickly making its way to the surface.

His eyes roll as he shifts his weight to the side. "I know. I was just-"

"No, you don't," I exclaim. "You don't get it Esposito. This isn't just some girl. She is lost, scared, and alone. And it is our job to find her. We were too late for Jack, but we will find her alive. You got it?" Throughout the course of my diatribe, Esposito's facial expression changes from confusion to concern.

"Beckett," he begins carefully, "maybe you should stay here. Ryan and I can run the-"

"No!" I reply adamantly, "This is my case. I am going to see it through." My arms are crossed over my chest prepared to guard myself against his threats.

He squares his shoulders toward my own, a stern look on his face.

"Look, Beckett. At the moment, you are not in the right place to deal with this. Your head will not be in the game and it could cost Jessie her life." He points toward the ground firmly, indicating the sincerity and severity of his words. "Either you stay here of your own accord, or I leave Ryan here to forcefully keep you from coming."

A scoff cuts through the air and I realize that it is my own. "You can't tell me-"

"I _can_ tell you what to do, Beckett. And I just did," Esposito cuts me off. Now this man thinks he can finish my sentences? Well he's got another thing coming. "The chief will agree with me 100%, so don't try to fight me on this more than you already have." At the sour look on my face, he reaches out for my hand. I pull away quickly as he is left reaching into thin air. "Go. See Castle. He needs you now. Let us bring Jessie home safely."

My voice breaks. "I can't…"

"You _can_ back away from this Beckett. I know it's hard, but you can." He takes another step toward me and this time, I don't pull away. I don't have the energy. The last ten hours has drained it all from my body. "We are going to take your car now so that you don't try to follow us." He steps backward toward the vehicle keeping his eyes on me, as if I might attack if he turned his back on me. "I'll let you know as soon as we've got anything."

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I don't know how long it has been since Ryan and Esposito drove away in my car. At first I stood in shock. I was angry; that much was a given. As my anger with Esposito subsided, however, anger with myself began to build.

How could I not see what he had been able to? Esposito was right. I was getting too caught up in the case and my current emotional state could have cost someone their life in the thick of it. All I know though is that Esposito and Ryan are out there right this moment, risking their lives. They are risking everything for this child and all I can do is aimlessly wander the halls of New York Presbyterian, waiting. Waiting for word on whether we raided the right building, on whether they found Jessie. Waiting to find out if they got there in time. One thing I won't be able to handle right now is if they tell me we were too late. That would break me. I know it would. I think it best to turn my phone off for the time being, but I can't. Curiosity killed the cat, and it just may kill me as well, but I have to know.

I halt my movements when I cut around a corner and nearly walk into a woman. Looking up, I realize that it is none other than Martha Rodgers.

"Oh, there you are, dear. I was just about to call you." She looks down at my clenched hands. Although I gave Esposito the note and removed the gloves, it is as if she can see the blood on my hands. Her son's blood.

When I don't answer, she studies my face and continues. "Alexis has school in the morning and refuses to miss it. You know Alexis. She must be worried about changing her schedule; about breaking down if she doesn't have something to keep her busy. I don't exactly blame her for that. Anyway, I will be taking her home now. You can see Richard if you would like. If you want us to wait, you are most welcome to come home with us tonight." I think I have missed most of what she has said butI have caught the end of it and gently shake my head from side to side.

"Thank you, Martha, but I think I'll stay here."

She reaches out to me, steadying my staggering frame with a hand to my shoulder. "I figured you would. You're always welcome in our home. You know that don't you, Katherine?"

I nod. "Yes," is all I can force myself to say. The love emanating off of this woman send chills down my back. I haven't felt taken care of in this way since my mother died. Thinking of her brings a new wave of sorrow upon me, but I attempt to keep it at bay.

Martha's warm hand cups my cheek briefly before leaving my body entirely. "He's in room 42, darling." She leaves me with that and I soon find myself standing before room 42 with no recollection of how I got there. Staring through the window, I see the weak form of Richard Castle. His chest rises, almost imperceptibly, every few seconds. Were it not for this and the beeping of his heart monitor, he would appear dead.

I can hold myself back no longer. Grasping the doorknob, I slowly push it open slightly, enough so my body can slip through the small opening. Standing at the end of the bed, I take in the sight before me.

He looks fragile; nothing like the Richard Castle I have known this past year. The ostentatious persona is gone, replaced with breathing tubes and IV drips. This is what it has come to. Without realizing it, I have slowly made my way to the side of his bed adorned with the fewest cords.

Grasping the back of an uncomfortable looking armchair, I pull it towards the right side of his bed. Sitting down quickly, I lean forward and grasp his hand in my own. I intertwine our fingers, rubbing soft circles across the back of his hand with my other hand. I realize I can hold my tears back no longer.

Sliding my upper body onto his bed, careful not to jostle any cords, I bury my head into the blankets next to him. Needing more contact with him, I gently place my head upon his stomach, as far from his wound as possible. My tears quickly soak through his sorry excuse for a hospital gown, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters. I can cry freely here – no one can see my tears.

I almost laugh as I realize the similarity of my thought to the end of his final Derek Storm novel. The look on his face the night of his reading in Broadway Books had been incredible. My legs were what really caught his attention. I wonder what he would have done if the dress were low-cut as well? He probably would have passed out. My thoughts slow the tears and allow me to take in a few uneven breaths. Placing a chaste kiss upon his hand, I burrow my head more comfortably onto the blankets beside him before drifting quickly to sleep.

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I am startled awake by the presence of a number of what I assume to be surgical inters making their morning rounds. Goddamn teaching hospitals. I look at my watch. It is only five thirty in the morning. I don't know how long I slept for. Maybe it was only five minutes. That's all it feels like at least.

"Richard Castle," a woman I assume to be their resident begins, reporting information off of a clipboard in his hands, "Gunshot wound to the chest. An emergency thoracotomy was required to perform hemostasis following perforation of the pulmonary artery with massive hemothorax." They stand around the bed in their blue scrubs, nodding taking notes, "Bullet immobilization into the left hypogastric artery through an acquired aortopulmonary fistula suspected during thoracic exploration was diagnosed after the procedure."

"What's the prognosis?" their resident asks. Each intern begins to rummage through the papers on their clipboards before one of them speaks up.

"A steady supply of IV fluids, medically induced coma for at least a week, depending on his condition at that time, and a prescription of opiates for the pain once he is awake. We will need to do a CT to make sure no fragments were left in the thoracic cavity and he will need to be kept under 24 hour surveillance for the next four days."

The resident speaks once more. "Very good Dr. Harris. You will be in charge of keeping an eye on Mr. Castle today."

As quickly as they have arrived, they are gone once more. Onto the next unsuspecting victim, I imagine. Looking down, I notice that my hand is still wrapped tightly around Castle's and I wonder if I have cut off the circulation to his hand by laying across his arm as I slept. Sleep. That reminds me; I need more of it. Returning to my former position, I close my eyes, willing sleep to come.

As if aware of my intentions, while wanting me to suffer, a nurse walks in at the moment my breathing begins to slow. Peering over Castle's unconscious form, I notice the woman as Nurse Taylor from the previous night.

"Oh, good morning dear," the elderly woman says. "I'm just here to check on Mr. Castle."

She walks to the other side of his bed and checks the tubes attached to him before changing his IV bag for a fresh one. Noticing that the level of blood in the bag next to it is still high, she makes a mark on her clipboard before turning to leave.

"You know," she says, turning back to face me as she reaches the door, "you are welcome to use that bed." Nurse Taylor motions to a bed on the other side of the open curtain.

My gaze follows, but I meet her eyes quickly, shaking my head. "That's nice of you, but…"

"I understand, sweetie. You need to be near your fiancé." She looks around her as if to check that no one is watching before taking a step toward me, leaning closer. "You know, don't tell anyone I told you this, but as long as you move the cords aside and don't press on his chest wound, we can't stop you from lying in bed with him." With a wink, she pulls back and makes her way back into the hall.

I smile softly at the woman's words and consider my options. Lying here like this is painful, but not touching him is not an option for me at this point – so the bed across the room is out of the question. It is still dark out and I need the sleep, but would sleeping in bed with him be appropriate?

Throwing all caution to the wind, I do as the nurse has requested and move any stray cords aside. Pulling the covers back, I slide into bed next to Castle.

I have to snuggle up to his side in order to prevent myself from falling off, and I do my best to avoid the left side of his body altogether. Laying my head on the pillow next to his, I wrap my arm around his abdomen. My right leg slides over his and I slip my leg between his. I almost laugh when I think that the first time I am to sleep with the man I love, he will be unconscious.

Even through the smell of the hospital shampoo and soap, he still has that unique Castle scent. Breathing deeply the smell of him, I begin to drift into a deep, peaceful sleep. My last thoughts are not of my pain or his, not of the case I have been kicked off of, but instead of how nice it feels to lie next to a soft warm body again and of how much nicer it will be when he can hold me back.

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**End Chapter Notes:**

Hey guys! Sorry it took me so long to update. I would like to thank the b-e-a-utiful Starbuck for betaing this for me. I really appreciate her. I say this because in a relationship, in any relationship it is important to let the other person know that you appreciate them so that you do not delay any chance of reciprocation. :)

Anyway, the reason for the long wait time between updates is because I am taking to many summer term classes in order to finish two degrees in four years. I know, I'm crazy, but what are you gonna do? Ninja kick me and lock me up with a pillow, maybe. Anyway, it may be just as long before the next update, which I apologize for. I will be done with school in four weeks and hope to have time to catch up with my thoughts and ideas then. Sorry if that makes you sad. It makes me sad too.


	4. You Wouldn’t Like Me

4. You Wouldn't Like Me

[Beckett POV]

I rouse from a wakeful daze to find myself standing in the middle of my living room. I am home and have only a vague recollection of how I got here. I do not worry myself with the details, my mind focusing instead on the uncertainty of Castle's current condition and the ambiguity of the future. I still have no idea what will happen to this man and that scares me more than I would like to admit to myself. Wandering almost aimlessly through my small apartment, I begin to strip my clothing off, dropping it in my wake. I am soon at the door to the only bathroom, turning the cold, hard handle with my trembling fingers. The chilly tiles beneath my bare feet bring me back to some sort of reality and I reach past the sheer shower curtain to turn the water on before stepping in. It is freezing for the first few moments as it surges out of the shower head and onto my aching body. I don't mind, however, relishing in the sensation that drags my thoughts away from Richard, if only for an instant.

How could it have happened? How could any of this have happened? I still wonder, even countless hours after the fact, why he was not wearing his insipid bullet proof vest. As comedian Demitri Martin says, vests _are_ all about protection. A life-vest protects you from drowning and bulletproof vests protect you from getting shot and the sweater vest protects men from pretty women. I can't help but smirk at the absurdity of his comedy and speculate whether or not Castle has ever worn a sweater vest in his life. Somehow, I wouldn't put it past him. A younger Richard Castle in a sweater vest would have been quite the sight. I make a mental note to ask Martha about his previous fashion choices and if there are any pictures of him in his private school uniforms. All of my musings have distracted me not only from negative thoughts, but also from my current actions. I reach for the shampoo bottle with a look of confusion on my face. I study the bottle and look around the shower, trying to remember. Have I washed my hair yet? I hate this feeling, and yet I open the lid and pour a small portion into my hand. As I massage it through my hair, my thoughts return once more to Castle. I wonder what will happen when he wakes, if he wakes. The doctors were pretty vague, but at the moment, I have no reason to believe that he won't pull through this.

The possibility that he won't make it weighs on my mind, drawing me from the shower as I rinse the last remnants of shampoo from my scalp. The warm water has begun to run cold, signaling my welcome there has run its course. Wrapping myself in a terrycloth robe, I collapse, my knees crashing into the smooth tile of my bathroom floor. The same tiles that just twenty minutes earlier had been my tether are now the bane of my existence. Small droplets of blood mingle with those of water that cascade down from my still wet body. I cut my leg slightly on the fall, but at the moment such menial things matter little. The salt from the tears I hadn't realized I was crying begin to sting at my open pores. I wipe them away but more come to take their place, making the action pointless. Nevertheless, I repeat it, only dimly aware of the diminutive amount of difference it is making. Slowly, I regain control of myself and rise from my perch on the floor, disregarding the blood-stained water that has pooled there. I will deal with it later; tomorrow perhaps. After all, Scarlet O'Hara told us that tomorrow _is_ another day.

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I have lost track of time. Food has not entered my body for at least a day, yet somehow, I am not hungry. Even the thought of eating seems utterly revolting. Thus, instead of making my way to the kitchen as I normally would, I head straight for the door and make my way to the precinct – a place at which I hope there is good news waiting.

Taking a cab, not trusting my wandering mind to operate a vehicle, I get there in record time. New York cabbies really do drive like maniacs, but their utter disregard for traffic laws came out on my side today. As I walk into the bullpen, I find both Ryan and Esposito at the former's desk, looking peculiarly exuberant. I approach them and they seem to hear or sense me, turning to face me as I near.

"Well?" I prod.

"We got 'er'," Esposito responds cheerfully, a large smile upon his face.

"Jessie?" is all I can ask, waiting with baited breath for his answer.

"Yes. She is safe, and although she has been through quite an emotional rollercoaster, in good health. After a quick check-up this morning, she was released to her parents. I assume she is sleeping safely in her own bed right this moment." It is all I can do to keep from crying. Finding the first open seat behind me, my head falls into my hands as my fuddled emotions toy with my sense of reality. Rubbing my eyes and running a hand through my hair, I glance up at the pair before me.

"And the suspect?"

"Got them too." This time it is Ryan who replies, just as enthusiastic as his counterpart.

"Them?" I wonder aloud, leaning forward in my chair.

"Yeah. Castle was right. Jazz Mobile was the place, and the whole lot of them seemed to be in on it, although the ring leader seems to be a one Mr. Abel Gabriel, the manager." He notes this information from a pad of paper in his hand, looking back at me earnestly.

"How very biblical," I mutter, shaking my head in an attempt to rid myself of the continual daze I can't seem to purge.

"I know, right?" Esposito continues, seemingly unaware of my less than centered attention. "Anyway, we've got them all in custody, and already have a confession out of Gabriel."

"Good work, Respo." I attempt to force a weak smile onto my lips, and assume that I have failed miserably, although I am so emotionally numb that I can't really feel my face enough to tell for sure.

"Respo?" they question simultaneously, glancing at each other before looking back at me.

"Ryan and Esposito. Sorry, I'm still a little tired. How's the paperwork?" Motioning toward the large stack of files and paper on both of their desks, I notice that mine is oddly clear.

"Almost done. We've got everything under control here if you need to get back." Motioning with his head toward the door, he attempts to get me to leave. Little does he know that this is my safe place. Whenever I can't handle something, whenever it all gets to be too much, I come back to the precinct and work. It takes my mind off of whatever is plaguing me. It helps me deal. Not that I have ever told anyone this, but what am I to do? Admit weakness? Never, although they all seem to have noticed it of late.

"I need to be here right now." This is all I can admit at the moment. Probably all I will ever admit, but no one can predict the future. "What can I do?" I ask, rising from my perch and walking toward the closest pile on Ryan's desk. Just as I take a file into my hands, I hear a looming voice behind me.

"You can go home and get some rest, detective. You look like crap." Every head in the group turns to see Captain Montgomery almost hovering over us. Well, at least he hadn't beat around the bush by telling me I look tired. I hate it when people do that. Just tell me I look like shit and get it over with.

"Sir, I-"

"Nothing you have to say will placate me, Beckett. I want you to get some rest. The accident has hit us all pretty hard and I can tell that you, of all people, need some time. I don't want you back here until you are at the top of your game. In fact, take the next week off." His voice is deep and ominous, concealing a great deal of hidden connotations, and yet, somehow reassuring. Still, a week is a great deal of time to be away from my happy place.

"A week? Sir-" I attempt a retort, but don't get far.

"This isn't a negotiation, Beckett. Either you leave now, or you will be escorted off of the premises." As if to prove his point, he waves his fingers in Esposito's direction, who unwillingly rises and moves to stand behind the chief, a air of regret on his face.

"Of course, sir," I comply, grasping my discarded coat as I make brief eye contact before heading for the escalator unsure of where to go now.

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I'm back at Richard's bedside. Where else am I going to go? Home doesn't seem like a good option. I just can't be alone right now unless I want a repeat of this morning's breakdown. Yes, some might consider sitting next to an unconscious man pretty lonely as well, but at the moment, he is the best company I could ask for. He doesn't care how shitty I look, he doesn't care if I have anything interesting to say, he just is. That is all I need. _He_ is all I need. I chew absentmindedly on my lip and run my fingers through the hair at the top of his head before sighing. Yes, this is where I need to be – here with Castle. Maybe the captain was right.

Martha has been here in my absence. I can smell her perfume in the air, Richard's pillows have been exchanged for a more comfortable looking goose down (something I will need to forewarn Ryan of), and a series of decorative pieces are placed throughout the small room. As I peruse the latest additions, my eyelids begin to betray me, drooping until I can keep them open no longer. My head lands softly on his abdomen as I slide slowly downward, hooking my arm around the other side of his body in order to hold myself there. My right hand grasps his left loosely as I drift into what would be a peaceful slumber under better circumstances.

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I am startled awake once again, however, this time it is not by annoying interns or nosy nurses. I am awoken instead by the erratic movements of the chest beneath my head. Pushing my body away from Rick quickly, I am able to watch the irregular rise and fall in horror. I reach for the call button just as a loud beeping reaches my ears. I jerk my hand way and hastily look around for the source before I realize it is his heart monitor. I am out of my seat in a flash, calling to the nurses, or anyone that will listen, that Richard Castle needs help. A myriad of people rush into the room, pushing me aside in order to poke and prod, listen and look. What is happening, I do not know, but I can only hope that whatever it is can be resolved quickly. I can't handle another surgery right now. I think I might even pass out right here from the worry and confusion I feel.

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**End of Chapter Notes**: I just got stung by a bee for the third time in as many months. This stinks! Good thing I'm not allergic.


	5. Lonely Hearts Still Beat The Same

Sorry it took me so long to post this. Life is crazy. What can I do, eh?

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5. Lonely Hearts Still Beat The Same

As more doctors and people in blue scrubs and white coats arrive, I am pulled from the room in a daze. A nurse, possibly the one I have dealt with over the past day – my cognitive abilities are working too slowly to be sure, assures me that they are doing all they can and that they will need me to wait outside. I don't know what to do other than pace as I make my way up and down the hall, walking into a series of people and objects along the way. Without noticing it until the point of collision, I come into full contact with another person, only to fall backward into a cart of medial supplies. I reach out to catch myself, which is successful other than the fact that I have just slit my hand open on something.

"Katherine, are you alright, dear?" Martha's voice pierces through my daze, cutting into my consciousness, and I suddenly feel the pain in my appendage. Steadying myself I cringe and shake my head.

"I'll be fine, Martha. It's Castle that may not be." I bite my lip at the sight of the blood that appears to have been cascading down to the floor. Wrapping my palm in my favorite red shirt, I glancing over my shoulder toward his room.

"No dear," she counters in her utterly motherly tone, "I don't think you are. Look at this blood. We need to get a doctor to check you out." Glancing quickly about the wide hallway, she searches for one. I, however, will have none of it.

"No, Martha, I'll be fine, I promise." Wrapping my hand more tightly, I attempt to dull the pain, looking over my shoulder once more at the commotion taking place in the room I recently vacated. "I just can't leave this hallway until they tell me what's happening with Rick." Martha's eyes follow the path mine have taken and she grasps my shoulders in attempt to get my attention.

"What do you mean, 'what's happening with Rick'?" The confusion and worry is blatant on her features. I shake my head and place my good hand on Martha's shoulder, mirroring her actions.

"I mean, I fell asleep in the chair next to his bed and awoke bells and whistles and the whole joy luck club is in there right now running the whole kit and caboodle." I stare blatantly into her face waiting for some sort of reaction, however, only bewilderment is evident.

"I'm confused, darling," she declares, moving her right hand from my shoulder to my cheek, cupping it in order to maintain my attention and keep my head from moving back to look at the current events. "What is going on?" I shake her hand free and turn fully to face the proceedings. I roughly rub my eyes with my free hand before answering.

"He's having some sort of cardiac arrhythmia and I-" Dropping my hand from my face, my eyes widen and I point to the scene as it unfolds before me. A group rushes into his room pushing a crash cart. "That's the code team. Is that the code team?!" I exclaim with much more volume than necessary, however at the moment, I could care less about everyone else in the hospital other than the man dying in his hospital bed not fifteen feet from where I stand.

"Calm down, darling," Martha urges, although her tone is anything but calm. "They are doing everything they can." I can't force myself to tear my eyes away from the doorway, although I am glad of this as well, because I know for a fact that the look on Martha's face will do nothing at the moment to soothe my nerves. Perhaps it is better if I just don't look.

"But, ninety-five percent of all code patients can't be revived," I inform her, saying something, anything, to tear my mind from the paddles that are being placed upon Richard's chest. My eyes follow these actions of their own accord, but at least I can compartmentalize enough to pull part of my conscious mind away from the events at hand. "Most of them are seriously dead before the team gets there."

"Where are you getting your information from? Grey's Anatomy?" I almost smirk at the reference. Almost. Partly because it _is_ where I got my information, and partly because I don't think my facial muscles are functioning correctly enough at the moment to form even the slightest of smirks. "I'm sure he will be fine – this must be common of patients in his condition. Think about it; he just had open heart surgery." Finally hearing her words, I turn to face her once more, closing my eyes briefly and nodding.

"I hope you're right, Ms. R," I murmur, attempting to swallow a lump in my throat. Grasping my shoulder, Martha pulls my body to hers and spins me toward her son's room.

"I am," she states, pointing toward the window separating us from them. Us from him. "Look sweetheart, there's a rhythm back on his heart monitor." Sure enough, as I watch, his monitor beeps back to life, causing my own heart to slow in what may be premature repose. "Now, will you let someone take a look at that hand of yours?" she questions, letting her long fingers linger over my injury, flitting across it without any sort of pressure.

"I just… I need to see him." I close my eyes once more in an attempt to impede the tears that threaten to escape. The attempt is futile, however, as I feel the moisture seep gradually from beneath my closed lids and Martha's thumb reaches up to displace them.

"I know you do," she says with an air of compassion, causing my eyes to slowly open in order to see her face. "But right now, you need to be seen by someone else." A hassled older doctor walks out into the hall from Castle's room, almost unseeingly. "Here we go." Martha mutters, stepping forward to get said doctor's attention. "Doctor, could you take a look at her hand? She just cut it on that cart back there."

"Sure." Rubbing a hand down her face, the doctor too steps forward and carefully removes the blood-stained shirt from my wound. I cringe at the contact, but attempt to keep my reactions under wraps. After an extremely brief glance at my hand, her eyes widen and she turns toward the nurses station behind us, finding what looks like Doogie Howser standing there. "Wow… Dr. Edwards, please take this young woman to the trauma bay and get her stitched up."

"Of course sir." He steps around the counter and extends an arm down the hallway in the other direction, gesturing for me to lead the way. "Ma'am, please come with me." Ma'am? I shake my head at him, almost refusing the help of this child until the pain in my hand rears it's ugly head once more. Swallowing my pride, I nod curtly and take off down the hallway. I want to get this thing over with.

"Everything will be fine Katherine." Martha stands stationary behind me in the hall. "I will be right here when you come back." Sighing, I step into the waiting elevator and watch Doogie press the button for the main floor.

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"Okay, this is a big pain and I'd really like it to go away, please." I sit upon a thin sheet of paper that covers what may be the most uncomfortable hospital bed I have ever seen, let alone sat on. The childlike doctor has cleaned my wound, which if I were to pull back the layer of skin still slightly attached, I am sure I would be able to see bone. My hand is yellow with iodine and the stench fills my nostrils as the pain sears up my wrist.

"Just breathe deep, ma'am," he appeals, as the first of many stitches is tightened into my hand. Cringing, I retort.

"Breathing doesn't help, and please stop calling me ma'am." Spinning on my seat, I turn to face him, almost pulling the stitches from my hand as he places them there. "Can I shoot you instead?" Although I am not seriously considering such an action, I kind of wish I could at the same time.

"What?" He exclaims, looking up from his work to consider me before returning to my hand.

"Can I shoot you?" I repeat, leaning in toward the intern as I do so. "Somewhere non-lethal, like in the arm. That might make me feel better. I really need to do something."

"Look, the pain will go away soon, you just need to power through it." He simply shakes his head and pulls it carefully away from mine as if I were dangerous in some way. "Ma'am, do you actually have a gun?" I breathe deeply, for two reasons – one being that as he raised his head, he accidentally stabbed me a bit deeper than intended with the needle, and another being that he called me ma'am. Again.

"Okay," I exclaim in exasperation, "what did I tell you about calling me ma'am?" The doctor sighs as well, finishing the suture with a flourish.

"Sorry," he says somewhat contritely. "But do you?" I have no clue to what this man is referring – possibly because I wasn't listening to him earlier.

"Do I what?" I ask quickly, pulling my hand back to inspect his work carefully.

"Have a gun?" His tone is full of trepidation as he attempts to keep his features calm.

"Yes," I reply, unable to keep myself from laughing out loud, "would you like to see it?" Not waiting for his reaction, I pull back the side of my leather jacket to reveal my holster. Nestled safely within it is my service piece.

"Unless you have a permit for a concealed wea-" Not allowing him to finish, I pull my badge off the other side of my belt and flash it in his face.

"NYPD." He seems somewhat soothed by this particular piece of information, but there is still a hint of fear in his eyes. "I've got more than a permit, and no, I won't actually shoot you unless you call me ma'am one more time." Smiling, I return my badge to my belt and my hand back to the small table, allowing him to finish his work, feeling much better than I had just moments before.

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Back in Castle's room, I mindlessly stroke my thumb across the hand I currently hold in my own. I have been here for countless hours. Martha left long ago to meet Alexis at home after school. My hand is bandaged profusely and the pain still sears into me. I refused the pain medication that Doogie suggested. It just didn't feel right taking it. I should not walk away scot-free when Castle is laying almost lifeless at my side, under the unremitting risk of mortality.

"Small eyes and big teeth, and I was always a foot taller than everybody else, so I kind of hunched over." I chuckle, shaking my head as I inform an unconscious man of my uninteresting childhood and miserable youth. It brings back memories of Skate World, parachute pants, and that hideous Farrah Faucett hairdo. "I was a somewhat socially inept teenager to say the least."

"Then there was college," I recall. "The highlight of my social-life was my dorm's salad-bar." I can't help but think how different Castle's life was than my own. What would it have been like to know him when we were that age? Given, yes, there is a few years difference between us, I still wonder if there would have been something there.

"This is the best conversation we've had in weeks." I smile at the thought. This _is_ the best conversation we have had. Probably ever. When both of us are conscious, neither would be willing to put ourselves on the line with such personal information. At the moment, however, I am speaking with a comatose man who will remember nothing of what I have told him if, nay when, he wakes. Will he wake? I can't help but arrive back at the daunting possibility that he will not – that he will leave me here alone in this crazy mixed up world.

"I'm exhausted by the world," I admit, moving from my chair to the edge of his bed. "Everything. The evil and the rage and the darkness. And the last thing I need is to lose you to that evil as well. Don't you dare leave me Richard Castle." Raising my uninjured hand, I run my fingers through his hair and lean close and breathing in what is left of his _Castle_ scent.

"What is this, the flirting corner?" A familiar voice pulls me back to reality as I glace backward only to see Lanie Parish leaning in the doorway of Castle's room with an enormous grin plastered on her face. Were it another time, another day, another place, her presence would be a relief, an escape. Today, however, I do not have the energy.

"Go home, Lanie. I just need…" I stop myself before continuing, not wanting to be rude to someone who just wants to help, but also craving some time to myself. Lanie shrugs, apparently unaware of my discourteous demeanor, or possibly ignoring it purposefully.

"You really want some space," she questions in an overly motherly tone, "or are you and I going to go get drunk?" she finishes. Nope, definitely not mother-like. "'Cause there's this bar - you won't even remember it tomorrow." A smirk spreads across her face. Mine turns to a scowl, and yet she stands her ground in the doorway.

"Lanie, I-" She won't let me finish. Good friends don't let their friends wallow. At least that's how Lanie feels. I personally think wallowing is healthy.

"Come on, girl. It's not like he won't be here when you get back." Gesturing the bed on which I am sitting, she gives me a knowing look. "You need a break from the smell, people being wheeled by, tubes sticking out of 'em, you know drainage, fluids, gaping holes..." Lanie trails off, apparently unable to think of any other crude imagery. I shake my head at her attempt.

"Okay listen," I urge, "why don't you go home?" I'm nothing if not persistent and right now I am trying not to give in, although part of me seems to want to.

"You want me to go?" she asks, her tone full of hurt. Even though I am sure it is all a ruse, I still feel bad for how I have treated her and sense my walls beginning to crumble.

"No," I admit. "I guess it's good to talk to someone who can actually respond." Lanie takes this as my assent and marches swiftly into the room, picking up my discarded jacket on her way to my side.

"Good. So, alcohol?" She stands beside me, arms akimbo and I know that I do not have enough resistance left in me.

"Okay," I sigh and rise from the bed, taking the jacket she offers. As she peddles me out of the room, I am allowed one last fleeting glance at Rick's peaceful face before we turn the corner.

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**Post Script**: Okay, so sorry if some of this doesn't make sense. Tuesday (btw, I know it is Monday, I am referring to last week) is two dolla pint night and I guess I went a little overboard because I had a beer with dinner before going out because I forgot it was two dolla and may have ended up a little more than tipsy. Well, after reading this, I thought it was pretty good regardless and so I left it as is. :) Hope you like it at any rate.

"Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop."


	6. Where Does The Good Go?

_Hey guys. Sorry things have taken so long. Life is hectic. I dislike senior year. I can't wait until next year when I have more time for this kind of thing. I hope you enjoy what I've got._

6. Where Does The Good Go?

As the we walked into the dive bar across the street from the hospital, I can't help but notice the stark differences between it and what has been my home for the past two days. Leaving my side, Lanie approaches the bar and addresses the woman in a crisp white shirt that stands behind it.

"We'll have two long islands and we'll take them at that table in the corner." She briefly points at a booth across the room before making her way back to me and dragging me toward our destination. "How are you doing?" she inquires as she gently pushes me into a seated position on one of the cushioned benches.

"Fine," I answer, glancing at the neon sign in the window, which indicates that the establishment is indeed open, as if somehow the lights and people within would not be enough to convince a possible patron. Lanie grasps my hand and gives it a slight tug, pulling it to the center of the slick table before me. I brave a glance at her face, fully expecting what comes out of her mouth.

"Hey, guess what? It's me. Come on, how're you doing?" Lanie doesn't buy my crap like the rest of them do. She never has and never will. I know I can't lie to her, and yet I always seem to try. I just hate that she is able to read me so well. Sometimes I want to get by with just part of the truth. Is that so much to ask?

"I'm hanging in there," I venture, hoping that this is enough to tide her over for now.

"And…?" It wasn't enough. The look on her face would have told me that before I had even tried to evade her. That is if I had taken the chance to look at her face. No, if I look her in the eye, she will know all of the muddled emotions swimming around in my head. I need to sort those out before she can see them. Right now, they are mine and mine alone. Therefore, I will just give her the exterior emotions and she can do with them what she will.

"And," I continue, stalling to gather my thoughts into something at least slightly comprehensible, "it's hard, you know. I have gotten used to having him around. I have gotten used to having his help on cases. I don't know if I could do my work without him anymore – that is if I weren't already forced to take a two week leave." I roll my eyes and scoff at the utter inanity of my life at the moment. It doesn't seem like things could get any worse.

"Two week leave?" Lanie solicits, pulling me back to the conversation at hand. I bite my lip.

"Yeah, Montgomery kicked my ass out of the Twelfth this morning and lets just say if I come back within the next two weeks he won't exactly be happy about it." I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Life, work, everything. None of it seems to make much sense anymore.

"What did you do to warrant that?" If she is concerned about my anomalous laughter, she hides it well, putting on a friendly veneer and waiting for my response.

"Came in late," I begin, marking things on my fingers as I explain, "looking like crap the morning after my partner got shot?" I raise my hands in the air, shrugging as if I have no idea why such behavior got me temporarily kicked out of my workplace.

"Your partner?" Lanie picked up on the one thing I didn't mean to say. No, he technically is not my partner – in work, in life, in crime, or anywhere else – he is just a writer.

"Shut up," I tell her, scowling as I take my drink from the waitress and down half of it in one gulp. Was that some kind of Freudian slip? Do I want him to be my partner? I don't know the answer to this question and at the moment, I don't want to find out. All I want to do is get drunk. Very, very drunk. I knew there was a reason I didn't take those pain meds.

"Did you ever stop to think that the reason you and Castle work so well together is because of the feelings you have for each other?" Right now I can do nothing but stare at Lanie over the top of my recently emptied glass. "How's that for a spin?" She poses the question, her left eyebrow attempting to disappear into her hairline.

"Pretty good, I guess." I answer her in a monotone voice; devoid of any emotion. I don't want to deal with this. Not right now.

"Denial," Lanie poses, shaking her head dramatically. "It's not just a river in Egypt. It's a freakin' ocean." This time she raises both eyebrows in an expression of playful annoyance. She wants the truth. I know it is in there somewhere, but don't think I have the energy right now to dig it out. I sigh and rub my face with the hand that she does not hold in her own, wincing when the pain shots through it once again in reminder of my little accident earlier.

"Okay," I comply, "it was an incredible analysis of my working and personal relationship with Richard Castle. Is that what you wanted to hear?" I look her briefly in the eye before motioning toward the waitress to bring me another drink. I don't even really care what she brings me as long as it's strong.

"Indubitably," she concurs, smiling. "Thank you for that."

"Man," I declare, grasping her hand gently in both of my own, "you're a pain in the ass." I smile for the first time since we arrived as the waitress returns, trading my empty glass for a full one. I bring it swiftly to my lips and revel in the feeling as the cool alcohol slides down my throat. It is gone before I notice and the glass makes a loud thump as I place it back onto the table.

"Maybe we should order another drink and talk about that," she offers, waiving a passing waiter over.

"What," I wonder aloud, "my feelings for Castle or you being a pain?" My resolve is beginning to fade and I feel contentment take over my countenance as the alcohol starts to make its way into my system. Lanie simply smiles.

The one good thing about this bar is that we are two of the few customers occupying at the moment, so the service is quite good. Lanie quickly places an order in with the waiter as he approaches before folding her hands together and placing her elbows upon the table. "Whatever you want, really, but I was hoping for the former." She just sits there for a moment, studying me as the smirk grows once again on her face. All I can do is roll my eyes.

"Yeah well," I start, biting my lip more forcefully than necessary, "I don't know if I'm ready for that conversation." I look into Lanie's eyes, hoping to find some sort of solace there, but instead finding some sort of provocation. I have no idea what this woman has planned, but can bet my life that I won't like what its to come.

"Not ready for it?," she asks, scoffing. "Now's the prefect time to talk about it." I release my now sore lower lip just long enough to answer her question before taking it back once more.

"How so?" I inquire with my patented eyebrow raise, leaning over the table and closer to her as I do so.

"He's in a coma," she explains, as if this is something I do not already know. "You spend every waking moment – and sleeping, for that matter – at his bedside. You obviously have to be questioning your feelings at this point. Don't bottle them up, it'll just lead to more confusion."

"You wanna know what I feel?" I can't help the overly viscous tone with which this comment is expressed. If she wants me to open up, well then she will get the whole shebang. It may be more than she bargained for, but as my friend, she should expect it by now. I build up my walls, yes. Sometimes even I can't find the way in, but when those walls come down, even if just for a moment, no one will want to be in my way. No one.

"Yes," she responds, apparently unfazed.

"Really?" I nearly shout, to the detriment of those in nearby booths. If I were in a better state of mind, I may feel bad about acting such a way in a public place. As it is, I couldn't give a flying fart in space what they think. Screw the world! At least that's easier than feeling something.

"Of course, woman!" she exclaims, awaiting my response with what seems to be baited breath.

"I have no god damn idea what I feel. All I know is that-"

"What? What do you know?!" I close my eyes and suck my lip back in-between my teeth before taking another deep, calming breath. I know what to say, but the ability to say it out loud is evading me. To do so would make it real, and that is what scares me most. I take one more breath before opening my eyes to hers, full of both anticipation and worry.

"That being away from him," I pause in an attempt to find the correct words, "is killing me." I shake my head as another ragged breath shakes my body. "It hurts to breathe." Lanie takes my hand in hers without further thought.

"And why do you think that is?," she prompts, looking me straight in the eye before I turn away.

"You know, you'd make a great shrink. 'And how does that make you feel?'" I prompt, smirking once more as I tilt my head to the side. My joking elicits the response I am hoping for and Lanie moves to take a swipe at my head with her free hand. I dodge it just in time and my smirk turns into a full-blown smile.

"Just shut up and answer the question," she murmurs, pretending to be upset with me, but barely masking her glee.

"I don't know Lanie," I confess, shaking my head slightly. "Maybe it has something to do with the relative uncertainty of his condition. I have no idea what might happen from one moment to the next. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have gotten used to having him around and I can't imagine him not being there day in and day out, pushing my buttons." I pull my hands from hers and begin to pick at the dressings on my injured appendage – anything to keep from seeing her reaction.

"You know," she encourages, "he can't really push your buttons while in a coma, right?" I notice a full glass near the edge of the table and idly wonder how long it has been sitting there before reaching for it. The cool condensation on the outside of the glass wets my fingers as I bring it to my lips for a small taste. I no longer feel the need to get drunk. All I want is to feel content and know that a migraine in the morning won't help anything.

"I know that, Lanie," I begin, remembering that I have not yet responded to her inquiry, "but being there with him makes me happy. I can't explain it."

"I can," she states, looking into my eyes, and yet somehow past them. Lanie and her uncanny ability to look into me and see everything I want to hide can be so aggravating.

"Oh really?" I counter, trying to provoke some sort of outburst from her, even though it's completely unlikely. She is much too calm under pressure. Perhaps that is an occupational hazard when it comes to cutting up dead bodies.

"Without doubt," she replies with a straight face.

"Then, by all means…" I begin, waving my hand in front of myself and waiting for some sort of epiphany to transcend us both. Lanie scoffs at me and I can't help the surly face that results.

"Girl, if you really can't see this, then you're blind."

"See what, Lanie?" I am starting to get a little upset by her presumptuous nature and wish she would just come out and tell me whatever it is she thinks she has to say.

"You love him," she says as she attempts to stare me down – daring me to disagree. Oh, but I dare.

"I do not." Who does this woman think she is? I do _not_ love Richard Castle. That is ridiculous, ludicrous, preposterous, absurd, outrageous, and nonsensical. How could _I_ love _him_?! Lanie, however, doesn't miss a beat with her counter argument.

"Then how do you explain your inability to breathe when something happens to him? How can you explain your willingness to work things out when he went against the only thing you ever asked him not to do? And the way you say his name? Or what about the way he makes you smile when you're upset? If that's not love, then somebody goofed."

The more she speaks, the more images stream through mind. Castle and I together. His smile. Him guiding me through a door with his hand at the small of my back. Those rare moments when he acts like a true father. His hand brushing mine and our eyes meeting in a fleeting moment. All the times I have wanted to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder, but been too afraid too getting too close, too attached to the man who could walk out of my life at any moment. I take a deep breath and realize Lanie has been staring at me, for how long I don't know. Biting my lip, I look down at the nearly full glass in my grasp and chug it down quickly without another thought. I feel it's effects immediately and look around the room for a waitress.

"I need another drink," I say to no one in particular. Lanie reaches across the table to take my glass from me and places it at the edge of the table, grasping my now empty hand in her own.

"No," she tells me in a stern, motherly voice, "what you need is to go home, sleep in your own bed and think about this." She looks me meaningfully in the eyes before continuing. "You need to find out how you feel about this man, and sitting in a chair with his hand in yours and your head on his chest is not the place to do it." Just the thought of not being there with him tonight, not being there if he wakes up, causes my chest to constrict and I take in a breath to try to diffuse the pain, but to no avail.

"Lanie, I can't-"

"Yes you can. And you have to. You need to distance yourself and get a little perspective. He will still be there in the morning." She lets go of my hand to reach for her wallet and I pull it back instinctively as if to protect it from her words.

"But-" I begin as I cradle my hands against my chest, quickly cut off by Lanie as she slides a few crisp bills beneath my empty glass.

"No buts. I will escort you home if I have to." She stands and makes her way to my side of the table extending her hand toward me. I simply look at it as if it were some alien object instead of the appendage of my closest friend; for taking her hand would be giving in, admitting defeat, and I'm not ready for that. Regarding her hand instead of her face, I respond with something resembling spite.

"You don't think I'll just leave once _you_ do?" Lanie shakes her head, gives up on helping me up, and lifts my coat instead. Grasping it off of the bench next to me she gently places it across her extended arm.

"Maybe. But that's a risk I'm willing to take." Arms akimbo, she waits for me to rise from my seated position. As I do, she adds, "Plus, I'll be sleeping on your couch, so getting past me will be a bit difficult."

"Lanie…" I warn in vain.

"Katherine…" She spits right back at me, eyebrows raised.

I purse my lips at her and scowl before turning on my heel and walking toward the exit. "You can be so aggravating!" I spout over my shoulder as I push the door open into the crisp night air.

"I know," she says, following me step for step with a stupid smile plastered across her face, "and that's half the fun." I can't help but stop at this, facing her so abruptly that she nearly collides with me.

"What's the other half?" I ask, exasperatedly cocking my head to the side. Her smile grew wider at this as if she were just waiting for me to ask it.

"Being there when you realize that I'm right," she tells me before I scoff as loudly as possible and storm off in the direction of the nearest cab.

* * *


	7. Hiatus

Broke my non-dominant hand last night so typing is difficult. Expect my stories to be on hold for at least a month and a half. Sorry. :(


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